Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
of our adventures.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about barrens. Show everything
They were mourning the Barrens before returning to it, which is the proper attitude toward that long yellow stretch of dust and public foolishness. Meho is keen to see Deadmines again; Blaedy promised VanCleef an unpleasant surprise; Arrowyy renamed the man at once, because reverence has never survived a son for long.
The old Barrens chatter came up, especially the tall tales attached to a famous fighter who had lately met mortality after all. Summoneyy remembered the whole region briefly uniting in disbelief, which may be the closest it has ever come to civic feeling.
Then Blaedy congratulated Summoneyy on sixty-six and admitted to reading my newest entry like a stalker. Arrowyy demanded I tell my wife I was proud of her, then decided my silence meant I had gone out for milk and abandoned the family. I was fetching ink. A man cannot even replenish ink without becoming folklore.
Arrowyy returned from his early look at the new campaign pleased chiefly by a six-slot bag, a camp chair, and the prospect of skinning things more efficiently. A man knows what matters. He wisely stopped before seeing too much, which is rare restraint from someone offered fresh terrain and movable furniture.
Blaedy immediately audited the trades for useful blessings, found intellect and mana renewal, and accepted the arrangement only because company makes almost any inconvenience respectable. They settled on fishing in the Barrens, where Arrowyy calls enemy territory quaint and Blaedy calls it what it is: fishing for Horde. If they are harried off the shore, they mean to sit beside the pools in Wailing Caverns instead. Even their peaceful hobbies require a contingency plan involving hostile caves.
